


In the Event of Danger, Perform a Gallant Escape

by newtypeshadow, Rosalynian



Series: Knightverse [1]
Category: Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (2005)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Stakeout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-10
Updated: 2009-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-21 05:27:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newtypeshadow/pseuds/newtypeshadow, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosalynian/pseuds/Rosalynian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry really hadn't planned on spending the night like this: sitting in a chair, his hands tied behind him with rope, in an old musty warehouse full of crates. His boss, Perry van Shrike, was in a similar situation at his back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Event of Danger, Perform a Gallant Escape

**Author's Note:**

> Written as an RP with Rosalynian, who played Harry.

Harry really hadn't planned on spending the night like this: sitting in a chair, his hands tied behind him with rope, in an old musty warehouse full of crates. His boss, Perry van Shrike, was in a similar situation at his back. Add the fact that their hands were actually tied together and things were looking pretty shitty, especially since Monagmen's lackeys had beat Harry up before leaving them. Come to think of it, why was he always the one who got beat up? What, was Perry’s gay really that repulsive to them, so much that they couldn’t even touch him with a punch? God, tonight really sucked. Harry could’ve been at home watching TV, but instead he had tried to play hero for Perry—again—and that never really ended well for him.

Shit, his stomach hurt. Fucking bad guys.

Harry Lockhart was not the only unhappy camper; Perry van Shrike was pissed off too. "Fucking shut up already," he growled, flicking Harry's hand with his own. "I can't hear myself think."

Part of that wasn't Harry's fault—seeing the idiot get beat up always put Perry in a foul mood, mostly because Harry couldn't fight for shit, so it was like watching a soccer team do foul kicks with a puppy instead of a soccer ball. Except that unlike puppies, Harry could talk, and he liked to pretend he was tough, which got him beat up more. Which, in turn, escalated every situation, and set Perry's teeth on edge.

To make matters worse, the dirt-soaked ropes were digging into his Armani sweater, and he had Harry's blood on his chest and arms. Every time he looked down he could see ropes, and fucking Harry's fucking blood.

Today was a shitty day, and someone was going to pay for it.

“I didn’t even say anything,” Harry slurred: his lip was split. A cut also dribbled blood on his cheek—bad guys really seemed to like fucking around with his face, go figure. “Besides maybe ‘ow,’ because fucking ow. Jesus, stop moving your hands; the rope hurts.”

“Sure, I'll stop moving my hands. I'll stop moving my hands when we're outta this fucking shithole. Jesus, how cliché is this place?” He snorted. “Now shut up, or do something useful.” Perry hoped he wouldn't have to break his thumbs to get out of these bindings. Maybe Harry could get his hand through—he was missing a finger, after all. Perry shifted around, testing the binding on his wrists.

It would be a stretch, but he might be able to get a hand out. Might. “Where'd they put the fucking knot in this thing?” he muttered. He hadn't been paying attention—fucking Harry had been moaning.

Personally Harry thought it was a great idea to just sit still for a while, but of course fucking Perry van Shrike had to wiggle around and jostle Harry’s aching, burning shoulder, and that with the pain breathing caused—ribs, stomach—and the headache blooming where a particularly ambitious bad guy whacked him with the butt of his gun; all that together made Harry just want to sit there and fall asleep and let Perry do all the work, which he usually did anyway, but “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Harry muttered and let his head lean back; he felt it rest against Perry’s. His vision was getting a little fuzzy; what had Perry said? Oh, right, being useful. That’d be nice, for once. “Shit. Sorry. Getting blood all over your fucking conditioned hair, doesn’t that suck. How’re the ropes, did you—did you find the knot?”

Perry tried not to sigh when Harry's head fell back to rest against his own. He knew Harry got fucked up—how could he not have seen them fucking Harry up?—and it was for that reason he kept his head still while he shifted his hands.

Ropes were way more fun with orgasms.

Where was the fucking kn—there it was. “Got it,” Perry said. “Can you feel it? It's—here.” Perry grabbed one of Harry's hands and closed it around the knot. “Wanna do something useful? Untie that while I figure out a way out of this shithole. Probably rat infested. Fuck.”

“Huh, knot?” Harry slurred. “Oh, right. Yeah. Escaping is good, getting away is what I do. I’ll do that.” He let out a groan as he shifted his shoulder to get a better feel around the knot—what was it, a Flemish bend, a double-fisherman’s knot? Fuck, he couldn’t think, and this got so much harder after he lost one finger. At least picking locks was still a cinch, and wiring alarms never truly left him, which was always handy when they needed to sneak in somewhere, and what was he doing? Something about knots. Something. His shoulder, God. Perry had nice hair. Gay men always had such nice fucking hair. Wait, he needed to be useful, he needed—“This thing is really complicated,” he said, and then moaned when he jostled his shoulder the wrong way. “They knotted our hands by themselves, and then knotted them together, fuck. I can’t even tell what kind… Don’t worry, I’ll get it, I got this, I can do it…”

“Then fucking do it,” Perry growled, eyes flicking to the exits. One in front, two on the sides, and one behind him. All of them were padlocked except the one in front of him, which meant that would be their escape route if Harry passed out. Perry was shit at picking padlocks, which Harry didn't need to know, and Perry needed to fix before Harry found out—fucker figured out everything, eventually.

Okay, so once Harry got out the first knot, Perry could get the knife in his thigh and the gun under his balls and they'd be set. As long as Harry did what he was told, they'd both get out of this alive.

And go the hospital. Again. Fucking Harry. Perry was charging Ms. Toulman double for this. And then he was going to beat the shit out of Monagman and his asswipe bodyguards for touching Harry.

Harry had begun murmuring to himself, things like “Untie… Fuck, wrong way, fucking… loopy shit…” which were trailing off more and more often, the weight on Perry’s head steadily growing heavier. It went on for several minutes, punctuated every now and then with a curse and a groan, until with one final “Fuck” the ropes tying them together loosened and Harry slumped down in his chair. “There,” he said. “Done. Done, done, done. How’s that. Can I close my eyes, I’d… really like to close my eyes, what about the individual knots… Perry?”

Perry thrust his hands into Harry's. “Untie that, I'll do the rest. And don't fucking go to sleep. You've probably got another concussion.” Perry could feel Harry's hair against his neck, tickling the side of his jaw. He nudged Harry's head softly. “Harry, stay awake.”

Harry gave a noise, like “Mmph,” at the nudge. His fingers were loose around Perry’s hands, the knot around the wrists. They twitched, tried to close in around it, work them through. “Okay,” he muttered, and tried to focus on his new task. Simpler than the first one, shouldn’t be too hard, but all the pain in his body had gathered into one fantastic, surrounding darkness—but he kept his mind on mind on the knot, Perry’s hands, the width of Perry’s neck on the back of his head. “Stay awake,” he said. “Perry? Talk to me. Okay?”

Perry's eyes narrowed. Monagman was going to pay dearly. “Well, Harry, since we need to keep you awake and not put you to fucking sleep, I guess I won't tell you a bedtime story. Not that the kind I like would put you to sleep—the bad guys always ended up rolling down hills in nail-studded barrels while they screamed bloody murder.” He chortled. “Fuck Disney. Those were the real deal. How's that knot coming along?” Perry could feel Harry tugging at the ropes. He didn't want to move his hands yet though, in case it interfered with the untying. “How much longer until I can stop talking?” he asked. “'Cause you know what, I feel fucking ridiculous.”

“Keep going,” Harry whispered, and his fingers fumbled more around the knot, loosening it a little. “It’s helping. Your bedtime stories are fucked up, you know that? Besides, your voice is nice. You’re gay, so it’s smooth, or some shit, comforting, I don’t know. I don’t… I don’t feel too good, Perry. Things are getting fuzzy. Is it loose enough?”

"Move your hands," Perry said, not wanting to jostle Harry too much more. He twisted his wrists and his bindings slid off with a scrape of skin. He quickly reached into his pants and removed the knife. Less than fifteen seconds later, he and Harry were free, the knife was back in its sheath, and he held the gun in one hand and Harry with the other. “Stay awake, chief—almost outta this shithole.” Perry checked once more for cameras, found none, and started hurrying Harry toward the only door without a padlock. He hoped to god Harry wasn't leaving a blood trail. Or bleeding out internally. Fuckers. Beating on Harry was like kicking a puppy—only psychotic motherfuckers got off on that shit.

Harry kept his arm—the one without the injury—around Perry’s shoulders, because things kept tilting in a way alcohol usually made them, so he tilted with them, but thankfully it was into Perry and not the concrete, and shit, but breathing was getting harder. His chest hitched and something hurt inside, around the ribs; he really didn’t need that, along with the blood already on his cheek and lip and still drooling down his leg, which hurt whenever he used it. God, they had really fucked up most of his right side—and where was Perry going? To the door, the not-padlocked door, the not-locked door. The unlocked door. The completely unprotected door. “Oh, no,” Harry moaned. “No, no, no, bad idea, turn around, go for another one.”

Harry was probably right about the unlocked door—it was unlocked for a reason, and trouble on the other end of it was the most likely one. And fuck if trouble was something Harry couldn't handle—especially right now. “Fine,” Perry said, keeping his voice even. “You want to pick a goddamn lock when you can't see straight, be my guest.”

After a quick assessment, Perry chose the leftmost door as the best candidate for escape. It would be closer to his car, farther from the docks, and mostly blocked from view of the dock security booth. Fucking security company here was in on this charade. Perry made a mental note to see them all jailed as he stumble-dragged Harry to the door. He couldn't hear anything on the other side, but that could've been the thickness of the walls. Perry hated risks like this. And not having more guns.

“Harry?” Perry lifted Harry higher and pulled him toward the lock.

There was blood in Harry's hair. Perry made himself relax before he squeezed the shit out of Harry's ribs by accident, and instead said, “Can you get the lock?”

“Yeah, sure, no problem, just—let me lean against the door, just…” Harry put all of his weight, his left side, onto the metal doors, and stood there just breathing for a few seconds before he lifted an eyebrow and said, “My pick’s in my left jacket pocket, on the inside. I’m not moving my right shoulder anytime soon, could you—?”

Perry switched gun hands and reached into Harry's pocket. That felt like gum...a piece of paper or a receipt...phone...Bingo: leather pouch. Perry withdrew the lock pick pouch he'd bought for Harry after he nearly stabbed himself in the leg with his collection, and untied the leather tie with his teeth. “Here,” he said, holding the pouch open in his hand so the picks tucked in it looked like a larceny buffet. “Hurry.”

“I know, I know, imminent danger, must stop bad guys, all that,” Harry muttered, searching through the picks with his left hand while his right dangled uselessly. Doing it with only one hand and with the four-fingered one at that was going to suck. Might as well go with the plain pick, the good stainless steel one: easiest to handle and it was only a padlock. He plucked it out, smiled his thanks—it was a strained, humorless smile—and forced himself to stand in front of the lock. He teetered when he did, but Perry kept him upright by holding him under his arms. Harry leaned most of his weight against the door, his forehead pressed against it, and went to work one-handed. It was considerably harder than he’d imagined; the lock kept moving, which made him curse more than once. The cut on his calf felt like it was widening and his sock felt sickeningly damp, along with his face and neck—sweat stung everything. He could really use a bath, a lot of Demerol, maybe they’d give him a whole bottle of Demerol this time. Fuck, were his legs shaking already? He wasn’t even close to picking this thing…

“Stay with me, Harry,” Perry said, leaning closer to get a better look at Harry's face. Harry was sweating, pale as a virgin, and blood was caked against one of his temples. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “You've almost got it,” Perry said, not bothering to check the lock to see if it was true. “Just a few more seconds.” He gripped Harry tighter and hoped they'd be out soon. Harry was fading faster than usual. Fuck.

“Almost got it,” Harry slurred. His arm was getting heavy, but he had to keep going—Perry needed him to be useful and he always jumped at the chance to be useful to Perry, to prove that there was a reason he was Perry’s partner and a reason Perry kept him around besides busywork. If he could just do this, like he did the knots, just push himself far enough, wiggle the pick around, find the mechanism inside, hook it, switch it, move it—

Click.

“I’m fucking magic,” he said before he fell back into Perry’s chest, head lolling on Perry’s shoulder. His eyes remained halfway open, roaming over the dark, high ceiling.

“Fucking magic,” Perry muttered, torn between trying to encourage and being snide. He took the lock pick from Harry's hand, slid it into the case, and slid the case into Harry's pocket. Then he switched gun hands again and cracked open the door.

No one. Good; the faggot gun only had three bullets.

Perry couldn't wait to get to the fucking car. Then he was going to charge Harry's phone and call the fucking police, and get Harry to the fucking hospital, and then, while Harry was recovering on Ms. Toulman's dime, he was going to hunt down and put the fear of God and a few choice bullets in Monagman. Fucker. “Get ready to run, Harry,” he said, nudging his partner with his head. “You with me?”

Harry still thought Perry was a great place to lie against, very comfortable; a little squishy around the middle, maybe, but that was nice against his back anyway. “Run, what?” he said. “No, no, running bad. Running… Not running. Leg. Fuck. Hurts. Head, too, very bad. Everything, really.”

“If I carry you, it'll jostle you more, and you're more likely to get shot in the ass.” Perry glanced out the cracked doorway. He could see the car—his Mercedes-Benz was maybe one hundred feet away. Tires didn't look flat either, thank God. “Car's not far, Harry. You can make it.” He wasn't leaving Harry here to get the car. It would be too easy for Harry to get picked off if they were separated. At least if they were together, Perry could watch out for him. Fucking Harry. Always a liability. Why didn't he ever stay where Perry put him?

“If I run,” Harry said, and he looked entirely serious, except he had to catch his breath real quick just from standing, which only drove the next part in deeper: “If I run, I will black out. I’m sorry, I—I can’t. Sorry.”

Shit. “Okay. Harry, if you vomit on my sweater, I will kick your ass in front of all your nurse friends and tell them we're fucking and that I don't share. Are we clear?” Perry didn't wait for an answer—he hauled Harry over his shoulder, shoved open the door, and sprinted toward the car. Harry was a heavy weight on his shoulder, and his hips jostled Perry's head and scraped past his ear, but Perry kept running, strangely reassured by the discomfort because Harry was still with him, still alive, could still be okay. When he saw the first gunman, a man in dock security blue, Perry didn't even stop—just fired into the asshole's chest before the man could scream for help, and kept on going.

Harry first started whimpering when his ribs and stomach were laid across Perry’s shoulder because Jesus that didn’t really feel like it should be moving or grinding against anything that made him want to hurl, and what did Perry say about vomit? Oh, right, those poor nurses.

He heard the shot, panicked at first—Perry, Perry, don’t you fucking dare get shot, can’t do the blood-in-mouth thing again—but as his world was jostled past, blurred, he saw the guard fall down. He wanted to say nice shot or something similar but as soon as he opened his mouth, what, with the grinding pain on the inside and sway of Perry’s gait, there wasn’t much to be expected besides the pink-tinted vomit, and well, fuck. Not like any of those nurses would’ve gone for him, anyway.

Perry didn't notice his back was wet until he'd entered the key combination in the car panel and gotten Harry inside the passenger seat. Then he saw Harry's mouth. Blood dribbled out of it. “Fuck. Harry?” He caught a whiff of vomit and felt instantly, crazily relieved. He slammed Harry's door shut and got into the car, then pulled out a spare set of keys from the glove compartment and gunned it the fuck out of there. The windshield didn't get shot at, though Perry did hear gunshots as they spun onto the street. “Harry?” Perry frowned at his friend, who was now slumped against the window, and reached across for his seatbelt. Last thing he needed was for Harry to fucking fly out the windshield when some idiot hit Perry's car.

Perry strapped Harry in, strapped himself in, and shook Harry. “You awake? Ready to disappoint some nurses?”

Harry’s head dangled over his chest and rolled when Perry shook him. His eyes opened to slits, eyelashes fluttering, before he muttered, “Sorry,” and then they closed again.

“Not sorry, awake,” Perry growled, pressing harder on the accelerator. “Harry, tell me your last name right fucking now.”

“Name,” Harry said, eyes still closed. His voice had gotten quiet enough to be barely heard over the engine. He felt everything in slow motion: his brain, his body, Perry’s voice. “Shrike? No… Whitey. Haha.”

“Good enough.” Perry pulled into the emergency room parking lot, shut off the car, and once outside, dragged Harry to his feet. “Who was your high school sweetheart?”

Oh. Hospital. Big Red Cross sign. That was good. Hospitals gave help. Harry needed help, Harry needed—“Perry,” was all he managed, and he collapsed into Perry’s hold before blacking out entirely.

*

The nurses had swallowed Perry's lie about them being lovers, which would have been more mortifying if most people who knew them peripherally didn't think it was true without Perry faking it to stay in past visiting hours. What the fuck was with people in this town? Perry didn't have lovers. He had fucks. That was it.

He frowned down at Harry from his hospital chair. Heart monitors, IV drips, and stitches. Thankfully there was no internal bleeding, but there were bruised ribs, among other things, and Harry looked like someone had beaten him with the ugly stick.

...or tried, if Perry let himself admit it. Harry was....Perry looked away. Harry was his friend. Fucking with the nurses' heads to stay in was one thing. Fucking Harry was a fucking different thing entirely. Perry closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He put one hand on Harry's shoulder and glanced back one more time to see if he was still out.

Yeah. Damn.

Perry closed his eyes. Might as well get some sleep. It was almost 3 A.M.

*

When Harry woke, day already streamed in through the hospital’s window blinds. First he heard the beeping—always, always with the beeping in his hospital visits. After that he saw the sterile white ceiling. Ah, good old St. John's Hospital. It was pretty shitty to think that he could recognize each hospital by their ceilings. Speaking of shit, he felt like some steamrolled over. The headache was gone, at least, and come to think of it, they had pumped him pretty full of painkillers this time around. It must’ve been pretty bad, with how numb he felt right now. And high.   He turned his head, away from the window, to see Perry van Shrike asleep in a chair next to his bed.   Wow. He must be really high if he were seeing things.

Perry felt something graze his finger and startled awake. “Harry?” It was Harry's stubble-roughened jaw. Harry was looking at him. Harry was awake. “Fuck.” Perry rubbed grit from his eyes and sat up, unconsciously stretching before removing his hand from Harry's shoulder and pressing the nurse button. “You're awake,” he said. “Do you know what your last name is now?”

Harry stared at him, slowly blinking; his mind was still trying to catch up. His memory after unlocking the door was hazy at best, and the drugs didn’t help. Neither did the stitches he could feel invading his scalp and the long cut on his right calf and the blue sling that supported his shoulder. At least his face wasn’t covered in blood and grime anymore. He really wanted to pick at the scabs on on his cheek and lip, just because his hands were always restless—they were a thief’s hands. “Lockhart,” he said hesitantly. “Did it change and no one tell me or something?”

“We went to fucking Vegas, Harry. Got married by a fat gay Elvis impersonator with a limp dick. Don't tell me you forgot.” Perry grinned at Harry and shook his head. Then he heard footsteps approaching. “But seriously: if anyone asks, we're fucking.” He put a hand on Harry's and squeezed it threateningly when the nurse came in.

“Oh—Mr. Lockhart, you're awake! I'll go get the doctor,” she said, and hurried back out again.

Perry let go of Harry's hand and sagged into his chair. “Fucking hate these places,” he muttered.

Harry was awake, all right. Harry was so fucking awake that he had been staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed at Perry the entire time the nurse had been in the room. “Wait, okay, just a minute,” he said after recovering. “Rewind a bit. I know I’m a little whacked out on painkillers right now, but—we’re what?”

“Visiting hours, Harry,” Perry said, wondering how hopped up Harry was this time that he didn't just get it. Of course, this was still Harry he was talking to, he thought with a grin. “I can't stay with you unless I'm family. Therefore we are fucking. We're the gay Mr. and Mrs. Smith, but without the marital problems.” He paused. “Or the marriage. You know the Vegas thing was me fucking with you, right?”

Harry’s face scrunched into a giggle he tried to hold back. “Well—pffft—I don’t know, Perry. Things are pretty blurry after the lock and I don’t know long I was out for and I know you have no problem with premarital sex, but sure, we’re fucking. Visiting hours. Gotcha.” He paused. “Just don’t rape my mouth as a distraction without warning me again.”

Perry frowned. “That's ambiguous. You mean you want me to rape your mouth again, or you want me to warn you this time? Because I warned you last time, and you still weren't ready.” He snorted. “You practically cried.”

“Christ, sorry if I freaked out after screwing up a chance with Harmony, finding a dead girl in a lake, thinking Harmony was dead, seeing her show up dripping wet at my door saying her sister was dead, finding the first dead girl in my shower, then carrying her, and then having a guy, who’s a near-stranger, kiss me for the first time all within the same day! Ugh.” Harry tried to curl up on his side, but his ribs yelled at him; he was feeling a little sick. He really hoped the drugs weren’t wearing; they’d give him more, right? “Sorry. I get the distraction thing, great, it worked, but a real warning would be nice before it comes to that again, all right?”

“That was a shitload of excuses for no good reason. Glad to see you're feeling better.” Perry's eyes narrowed at Harry's sudden paleness. He tensed, made himself leave the nurse button alone. Instead, he snapped, “Don't fucking move, you'll wreck the bandages. Just lie back and think of England like a good little wife. Where the fuck is that fucking nurse?”

Right on cue, in walked the nurse, doctor in tow. The doctor was a middle-aged woman with honey blonde hair and a plastic L.A. smile. Perry hoped Harry didn't try to impress her. That was all they needed right now.

“Fuck you, all that made great fucking sense to me, why am I the wife?” Harry muttered, forcing himself to lie on his back and not in a fetal position. Then he saw the doctor. “Oh, hi. Would it be too much trouble to ask for more painkillers? Because I could use some.”

Perry gave the doctor a put-upon look. “He's always pissy when he's in the hospital,” he said with false warmth. “He just needs a good fuck to calm him down.” He patted Harry's hand and smiled. “When can I take him home?”

Harry's eyes were back on Perry: a kind of murderous, horrified glare.   The doctor blinked rapidly without losing her smile, then cleared her throat. “Of course, we understand, Mr. van Shrike.” She nodded at the nurse, who scuttled off in a hurry for the painkillers. “We’d like to keep Mr. Lockhart for a couple more hours, at least, to check over some things, mostly the trauma to his head. His ribs will require time and rest, as does his shoulder. We can send him home tonight, if things check out, with painkillers, if you’ll be patient with us.”

“That's fabulous,” Perry said, squeezing Harry's hand. He glanced briefly at Harry's expression, which was a mistake, since he nearly started laughing. “Do you have any pamphlets for home treatment? And there won't be any permanent damage, will there?” That thought was asked more soberly. It was like Harry was trying to make up for lost time in the P.I. business by getting the shit beat out of him as much as possible.

Monagman was a dead man.

The doctor answering his question snapped him back into character. “...bandages, too, so you won't need to buy too many yourself.”

“That's wonderful,” Perry said, not bothering to mention he'd bought plenty of bandages soon after Harry started working for him. “You're very kind.”

The doctor smiled, disgustingly polite. Harry wondered what she was really thinking. “It’s our pleasure,” she said. “Remember the breathing exercises for the ribs. I’ll be back to check on your head wound, Mr. Lockhart.” She left.   Harry looked caught between his glare and busting out in a drug-induced giggle. “Fabulous? So gay.”

“I'm good at what I do,” Perry said, not sounding the least bit repentant as he let go of Harry's hand. “By the way, slick, you're on desk duty indefinitely. You answer phones, you do paperwork, you try not to bleed out while I'm gone. Got it?”

“Gone? What?” Harry tried to sit up, failed, and lay back down with a grimace, his uninjured arm around his stomach. “Fuck, ow. Indefinitely? Like, forever? You’re shitting me. Just until I get better, right?”

“Gone like gone on a case, idiot,” Perry said, pressing down on Harry's good shoulder so he couldn't sit up far enough to hurt himself anymore. “Gone for the day. You think I'm leaving you alone indefinitely in my house? The fuck is wrong with you?” Perry's frown was not all annoyance at Harry. Did Harry really think Perry would disappear on him just because he was hurt? Jesus. “Way to make me sound like a dick.”

Harry groaned, rolled his eyes, shook his head, and said, “Way to misunderstand; that seems to happen a lot between us. I meant, what’s this about not letting me come along on any more cases after this? I won’t take that long to get better.”

“Actually, you not coming on cases is a good idea.” Perry frowned in thought, privately relishing Harry's reaction. After a few moments he swore violently, as if he'd just realized something important. “You never stay where I put you! Shit.” He glared at Harry. “You're not coming with me again until you're completely healed. Completely. And if you get beat up again, I will personally kick your ass.”

“Jesus, it’s not like I’m going to run into gunfire when my ribs are already bruised. I’m not that much of an idiot,” Harry grumbled. Then he started and narrowed his eyes at Perry. “Wait, are you planning to get back on the Monagman case without me? That’s for the cops now, leave it alone.”

Perry glared at the door, since glaring at Harry would convince the idiot to keep talking. Harry was half right—Perry was going to extract a pound of flesh, not resume the case, since they'd be getting paid anyway.

Of course, the silence only allowed Harry more room to worry, which was quickly overtaking his face. “Perry? You’re not answering me. What are you planning? Shit, you’re not going after Monagman, are you? Just forget about it.”

“Sure,” Perry snapped, turning his glare on Harry. “I'll forget about it. I'll forget about it when you don't look like a fucking rape victim.” Perry stood up jerkily and crossed his arms, glaring at everything and nothing, unable to stay still. “Fuck it, you need to eat something, and I need coffee. I'll be right back.”

Hurt flashed across Harry’s face, not fully caused by his injuries. He lifted his head to look up at Perry’s broad, towering form, not daring to try anything further again. “Perry, come on, you can’t go after him. The guy has guards everywhere.”   The nurse came in then, with a painted-on smile. She waved a bag of clear fluid in her hand. “Hey. It’ll just take a second to switch this, don’t mind me."

Perry nearly snapped at her, and made himself breathe before he asked, politely, “You wouldn't happen to still be serving breakfast, would you? I think Harry should eat something. And is there a place I can get coffee?”

“Oh, of course! I'll have two breakfast trays brought in once I'm done here.” Perry felt trapped. He really didn't want to be in this room anymore. Harry was going to try to grill him, and Perry was going to want to take off Harry's head for being too worried about him to want Perry to go after Monagman, who was way overdue for a bullet makeover. Did he not understand Perry needed to do this?

Did he not understand that part of the reason he was in that hospital bed was because Perry hadn't been careful enough?

And fuck if that wasn't the biggest thing weighing on Perry's conscience. Harry wouldn't get hurt half so much if he weren't so fucking insistent on helping, being with Perry on the job, being useful.

Perry was so distraught, he barely noticed the nurse leave.

A silent Perry could be many things, Harry knew: he could be brooding, pissed off, worried, or all three at once. Harry went with all three at once this time, given the circumstances. He had to get Perry to admit his plans, and then he had to stop him. Somehow. The idea of Perry going on a revenge mission for him was bad enough—actually, a little flattering, but still bad—but against a guy like Monagman? He kept thinking about Perry lying on the street with blood running down his mouth. Harry would never forget that taste. “Hey,” he said softly. “Come on, man. It’s all right, the cops will stick him in jail.”

“They'll try, and they'll fuck it up,” Perry said. “I don't know why you have so much faith in the system. Face it, Harry, Monagman's got enough money to stay out of jail until he dies. That's fucking unacceptable.”

“I’ve been through the system a few times, you win. But seriously, come on,” Harry said, and his eyes, looking less pained and more drug-feverish from the IV drip, turned on Perry, trying to get him to look back. “At least wait for me? Then we can take care of it together. You know, you watch my back, I’ll watch yours.”

Perry glanced back at Harry and felt his anger deflate. Harry was trying to calm him down, which was fucked up, because Harry was the one doped up and lying in a hospital bed. “Sure, whatever,” he said with a sigh. He sat back down in his chair and patted Harry's shoulder. The hospital gown was thin, and Perry could feel the reassuring warmth of Harry's skin through the fabric. “How's the liquid crack? Feel any better? And where the fuck did the nurse go? She's supposed to bring you breakfast.”

Harry gave a goofy, triumphant grin. His eyes were a little shiny; the drugs were taking effect. “Feeling pretty good. Sleepy, though.” He yawned, didn’t even bother covering his mouth. “Can I eat later?”

“Sure, chief,” Perry said, snorting at Harry's dopey grin. “I'll pick up some shitty stakeout takeout for you. Remind you why you should appreciate your cushy desk job.” Perry leaned back in his chair and let his fingers relax on Harry's shoulder. “Now take a nap. Get your beauty sleep, all that bullshit.”

Harry closed his eyes. “Aw, you think I’m beautiful. That’s…” He smacked his lips, head lulling to the side as his grin fell. “That’s real sweet of you,” he muttered, and was out.

Perry watched Harry sleep, wrath, guilt, and loyalty warring in his head. He'd lied to Harry about Monagman—no way was Perry letting this issue slide. If the police didn't get him, Perry would. That was his compromise—at least, it was where Monagman was concerned. Harry didn't need to know about the calls Perry planned to make regarding the two goons who'd beat him up.

As long as Harry had been in L.A., he still hadn't learned why it was unwise to piss off Gay Perry. Perry may have changed since he met Harry, may have changed around Harry, but he was still not a nice man.

“Harry?” he asked, shaking Harry gently.

Out cold.

Perry got out his phone.


End file.
